


A Throat-Pierced Sound In The Night

by Jocondite (jocondite)



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-20
Updated: 2009-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jocondite/pseuds/Jocondite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lonely as America, a throat-pierced sound in the night. (Jon is the kind of guy who stops to pick up hitchhikers).</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Throat-Pierced Sound In The Night

**proem.**

Ryan's feet hit the side of the road hard, and the impact is jarring, travelling from ankles to knees to hips. He blinks once, twice. The air is a slap against his face; the sharp transition from half-somnolent warmth into the cool late afternoon shocks him every time. At least it's not raining this time, and there's plenty of traffic out – the highway is clogged with cars in both directions.

Someone's bound to stop and pick him up sooner or later. He hoists his backpack up a little higher on his shoulder, steps a little closer to the road, and sticks out his thumb hopefully.

He feels the hum of the motor deep in his bones, a tightening along his spine, long before the car turns the corner into view.

  
 **i.**

Jon's been driving for about six hours straight. He couldn't find the attachment that hooks his iPod up to his car this afternoon, so he's been stuck listening to the local radio channels; you get tired pretty fast of refrigerator commercials, Republican talkshow hosts, callers waxing incredibly indignant and serious over football, and this one guy singing about how his woman left him and now his heart is dry and cracked in a million places like a creekbed in summer. He's gotten lucky a couple of times and picked up a couple of college radio stations, and it's not like this isn't going to make for decent copy when he writes it up later, but right now –

 _"All items half-price 'til the end of May, get to Grayson's Electrical Goods soon and don't delay,"_ the radio croons, trying to make the jingle scan. Jon's got one hand on the wheel and the other fiddling with the radio dial when he sees the hitchhiker a quarter mile up ahead, standing on the side of the road. His arm is held straight out, but there's something in the faint slump of his thin shoulders that suggests weariness.

It's partly that that makes Jon slow down and then stop; it has something to do with the radio, too, and something to do with a good story, and something more to do with how young the guy looks in the distance. High school kid, maybe.

Jon's pretty sure he could take him if all those urban legends about psychotic hitchhikers climbing into backseats armed with knives and rope - and probably, these days, tasers – turn out to be true. It's going to be dark in a couple of hours, and he knows that the stories about kids going hitching and never coming home again are _definitely_ true.

He hits the brakes and waits. The guy's still a few feet ahead, and Jon watches his head turn, watches him hoist his bag up and walk over to the car, a quick clipped long-legged walk that's just a little too fast to be anything but awkward.

Close up, the kid's funny looking, and probably in college, not high school, despite the brown hair cut in crooked bangs across his forehead. His eyes are hidden by sunglasses, aviators with shaded lenses that look too big for his face. His button-up shirt, with its murky reds and greens, beiges and purple-browns and its little blobs of paisley looks like something Jon's grandfather might have worn once; something straight out of the sixties. Yeah, definitely not much of a threat.

The guy taps lightly on the window, and Jon nods, leaning across the passenger seat and pressing the button that sends the glass rolling smoothly down. "Hey," he says. "You need a ride?"

"Yeah," the guy says, gruff voice at odds with the slim shoulders. "Where're you going?"

"L.A., eventually," Jon says. "Up to Amarillo, at least, before I stop again."

The guy's lower lip vanishes between his teeth, like he's thinking, and then he nods. "Yeah," he says again. "I'm heading to Nevada, so. It's on my way."

"I think that's my line," Jon says, raising his eyebrows but letting amusement colour .his voice "Yeah, get in. I'm Jon. I promise I'm not going to murder you and leave your body somewhere out in the wasteland."

The guy's still leaning close enough through the open window that Jon hears his soft little inhale, sees his eyes go wide for a second behind the tinted lenses.

"I sound flippant, but I'm totally serious," Jon assures him. "I feel that these are the things would-be hitchers and, uh, hitchees should know about each other upfront. In turn, I'd be greatly reassured if you could maybe give me your word, scout's honour, that you don't have a knife stashed in that bag." He pauses. "Or a taser. Or anything illegal that shouldn't be transported across state lines." Another pause. "Unless it's weed, in which case you might not be good with the local authorities, but you're totally good with me, my friend."

The guy's shoulders relax a fraction. "No," he says, ducking his head, and he sounds like he's laughing. He taps the strap of his bag with one long finger, and Jon notes in the distant corner of his mind that the duffel looks like military issue. "Um, I'm Ryan. No weapons, nothing illegal. Just some clothes, and a few books."

"Awesome," Jon says, and waits for Ryan to circle the car and climb in shotgun. "You can save me from the local radio," he says, starting the engine again and waiting for a break in traffic. "I was this close to going on a murderous rampage if I had to listen to another wholesale goods commercial when I saw you."

The guy is quiet, and Jon adds hastily, "I'm still joking. A ride with me has a one-hundred-percent guarantee of not ending in bloody murder, or your money back."

"Money," Ryan says, pushing up his sunglasses until they rest precariously on the crown of his head. His eyes are larger - wider - than Jon was expecting, brown and long-lashed. "You, uh, do you want –"

"Nah," Jon says easily, "figure of speech," and turns the car onto the road again in an easy sweep that makes the driver behind him pound on his horn. "I mean, if I'm getting gas and you want to throw a few dollars in, awesome, but that's optional. You'll be more than paying your way just by saving me from the radio and giving me someone to talk to. Talking to yourself's not a line I'm ready to cross, and my car's a sweetheart, but she's not a great conversationalist. The possible topics have been pretty much exhausted."

"Exhausted," Ryan says blankly, and Jon glances at him out of the corner of his eye and catches his mouth curling into a smile. "Exhaust. That's bad. That's really, really bad."

"Yeah," Jon says, grinning. "See, I knew I was going to like you."

  
 **ii.**

It takes them nearly an hour to run out of bad car jokes, and when they've finished laughing at what turns out to be the last one – they've been laughing helplessly for a while now, laughing harder the lamer and less funny the line – Jon says, "So, Nevada. What are you going there for? Vegas?"

Ryan blinks, broad smile flickering, dimming down. He touches the bag at his feet, almost as if for reassurance. "Yeah, actually."

"Not much else in Nevada," Jon nods. "I can see the attraction. Casinos, strippers, bow-chicka-wow-wow. Good call."

"Mmmm. You mind if I smoke?"

"Fuck, no. Just put the window down, dude, it's all good."

The cigarette box Ryan fumbles out of his bag is exceedingly battered, the cardboard worn and dented. His fingers are quick and deft as he lights up, his lighter some silver metal and not the plastic Bic Jon was expecting, and when he finally takes a drag his eyes close briefly on the inhale, lashes surprisingly dark against his fair skin. There are faint freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose and along the sweep of his cheekbones.

Jon looks away when Ryan exhales, smoke rushing thickly from his slightly pursed lips, and brings his eyes firmly back to the road. "Window," he reminds him.

"Right," Ryan says, and pats the inside of the car door bemusedly. "Um. Where's the wheel-thingy?"

"It's a button," Jon says, "just there, to your right. This car's kinda old, but it still has automatic windows, dude."

Ryan traces a questing finger along the edge of the dash, skimming lights and buttons, air vents and speaker. "It's a _nice_ car," he says, and he sounds earnest.

"This piece of junk? Nah," Jon says, but he pats the steering wheel apologetically and doesn't manage to keep the affection entirely out of his voice. "Your other right. Inside the car door."

"Oh." He finds it this time, and the window goes down smoothly. The fresh air is a shock, cutting through the warm, comfortable fug of the car.

Jon feels abruptly more awake.

There's a soft sound that means Ryan's taking another drag on his cigarette. Jon keeps his eyes on the road. "I'm not going to Vegas for the casinos, or the strippers. I grew up there."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Ryan says, and blows a mouthful of smoke out into the wind and the late afternoon. "It's been a long time since I've been home."

He doesn't offer any more, and they're both silent for a while, nothing but the roar of wind and the distant murmur of other traffic, the small slither sounds of Ryan turning his lighter over and over in his free hand.

"If you want –" Jon hesitates. It's no extra effort for him, and the guy's good company, and seems disinclined to make any threatening taser-y movements. "I can take you further than Amarillo, into Arizona if you don't mind hanging out for a couple of days. You can drive shifts, right?" He waits for Ryan's small nod, then says "Kingman, then. You can find someone there to give you a ride into Nevada, easy."

"Yeah," Ryan says, "uh, thank you." He grins in surprise and ducks his head over the smile. He has quite a pretty mouth, the line of it long and expressive, underlip curving sweetly like a girl's. "That'd be – that'd be really great of you, thanks." There's a pause, like he's looking for an adequate way to return the courtesy in kind, and failing. "You driving onto Los Angeles after Kingman?"

"That's the plan, yeah."

"Don't keep going straight past Victorville," Ryan says off-handedly, tapping his fingers against the dashboard. There's a pattern to the beat, a rhythm; it could be a song. It could be Morse.

"That's the only way I'm going," Jon says, raising his eyebrows a little. "It's part of my narrative arc."

Ryan gives him an odd look, then obviously chooses to pass over that statement for now. "You could go take Palmdale Road at the fork instead, switch to the 395, then join up with the Interstate and then the old highway again."

"I could," Jon agrees, "I just don't see why."

Ryan shrugs, one-shouldered, and the tapping stops. "Whatever. Narrative arc. Seriously?"

"I'm a photographer," Jon says, like that's enough explanation. "I kind of – 'work for' is probably a little strong. I freelance for some of my local papers." He pulls swiftly into the next lane. "I'm doing a photo essay on the old highway, before it got replaced by the Interstate. It used to run straight from Chicago – where I'm from – all the way through to L.A."

"Get your kicks on Route 66," Ryan quotes, and when Jon looks over at him he's staring out the car window again, and all he can see is the curve of Ryan's cheek and the way his brown hair curls a little at the base of his neck.

"Yeah, that's right," Jon says, smiling. "Most of it's gone now, but there are parts of it that are still preserved and run on for miles. I'm trying to drive through the old route – as close to it as I can manage, anyway. The real thing I'm supposed to be looking at is the way the interstate pulled people out of the country."

"Yeah?"

Jon's not sure whether it's polite or genuine interest, but he's done some reading, and fuck, he genuinely thinks it's pretty cool. It definitely beats some of the things he's had to cover, and his gas gets comped. "I mean, back then, if you wanted to drive to California, or to anywhere, you had to drive through small town America, you know? You saw the towns, you stopped at the local places, you brought your wallet with you."

"Yeah." Ryan pats the bag at his feet, smiling. "I have a copy of _On The Road_ on me, actually. I usually do."

"Yeah," Jon agrees, although he hasn't read it. He's going to. Someday. "And since the mid-fifties, it's all totally cut off from most of the country unless you actually take the off-ramps and go exploring cross-country. There's only so much local colour you can pick up in truckstops. I'm doing my best to go off-track when it's just interstate and the old highway hasn't been preserved at all, but, man. Truckstops. They don't make for good pictures, once you've already shot a roll or two."

"It's a shame," Ryan says softly. "It lost a lot of the poetry."

"That's progress," Jon agrees. "More speed, less scenery. Beats traffic jams that run the length of entire states, though."

"Still." Ryan tilts his head. "More real than the engine on a track in the desert, purer than Greyhound and swifter than physical jetplane, the pure emerald flame streaming in the wake of our auto." He frowns a little, eyebrows drawing together, and says, "I think that's right, anyway."

"You were quoting?" Jon waits for his nod before he laughs. "Yeah, well. America, land of the car."

"Poetry about cars," Ryan says, and steeples his long fingers under his chin, staring out over the dash. Against the late afternoon sunshine, his profile is dark and clear; angled nose and small firm chin, perfectly rounded eyesockets and hooded half-circle eyelids like a statue of a medieval saint. "Very American. 'Don't take the curve at 60 per; we hate to lose a customer. Burma-Shave!'" He laughs, a deep little chuckle, and Jon laughs too, squinting into the sun. "No, wait, better one. 'If wifie shuns your fond embrace, don't blame the milkman; feel your face. Burma-Shave!'"

"Poetry," Jon agrees. He focuses on driving for a little while, the hum of the motor and the faint reverberations from the road travelling from the wheels to the chassis to the soles of his feet.

"Poetry and myth," Ryan says into the companionable silence. "Says a lot about our society."

Jon glances at him sideways, but it's not as weird or opaque a statement as it could be. He was thinking along similar lines earlier. "You mean, like, scary hitchhikers with machetes? Because I've heard that one. I think it actually happened, though. Might have been the other way around, especially on this road, from what I've heard."

"There's usually a grain of truth in myth," Ryan says, and steeples his long fingers together professorially. Jon cracks up, he can't even help it, and Ryan's confused face just makes it funnier. "What?"

"Nothing," Jon says, schooling his face back to deadpan. "You mean you think that there's some truth to those 'man, a weird thing totally happened to the third cousin of a friend of a friend' sorts of thing?"

"Mm."

"Some of those stories are pretty crazy," Jon perseveres. "And by crazy, I mean bullshit. Like the hitchhiker who asks for a ride back to her house, and when they get there, she's gone and the person who answers the door says 'Yeah, that sounds like our daughter, she died ten years ago on this exact day.'"

Ryan shrugs.

"No, I get what you mean," Jon says. "Like, okay, that never happened, but people disappear all the time hitching. Or they did, back when people did it more. And the fact that a lot of, like, urban myth has to do with cars now is kind of cool."

"The new metal gods of the modern pantheon," Ryan says thoughtfully.

"That would make an awesome name for a band."

"Might be a little long."

"Nothing's too long these days," Jon says. "Or too short. Or too lacking in actual alphabet letters. It sounds like it should be the name of a hardcore band," he says, warming to his theme, "but that's probably way too obvious. It should be the name of, like, the lightest poppiest indie group ever, who sing about nothing but fields of daisies and girls in white dresses."

"Sometimes I like songs about fields of daisies and girls in white dresses," Ryan says meditatively.

"Twee pop?"

"I was thinking more early Beatles," Ryan says. "Only with hand-holding."

"I like me some Beatles," Jon agrees. "They're awesome to get stoned to."

Ryan looks lit up, suddenly; eyes wide and eager, head practically nodding like one of those plastic dogs with the wobbly heads people stick in the back windows of their cars sometimes. "They're _gods_. Modern gods. You like Bob Dylan?"

"Sure," Jon nods. "Well, sometimes."

"The Band? Jethro Tull?" Ryan seems to expand in excitement and Jon's every agreement. " Captain Beefheart? Small Faces? Jethro Tull?"

Jon hates to admit it, but, "Never heard of some of them."

It's like bursting a child's balloon, but Ryan perseveres. "The Incredible String Band? Iron Butterfly?"

"Nope. I like The Clash sometimes, though," Jon offers, and Ryan gives him a blank stare over the top of his sunglasses. "Counting Crows? _Radiohead_? No? Jeez. Haven't you listened to anything since the Summer of Love ended?"

"The Summer of Love will never end," Ryan says severely. "And no," he adds, with another flat look over his aviators. Jon is beginning to think that aviators were designed purely as an enhancement to the perfectly douchey superior stare. "What's the point?"

Jon laughs so hard he chokes a little. "Oh man," he says, "I know some guys who would totally agree with you that music died with Lennon, and like, so many that would murder you in your sleep. So many."

  
 **iii.**

When Jon drives through Amarillo, Ryan's fast asleep in the passenger seat, slumping down so far that his seatbelt cuts into his cheek. His sunglasses have slipped forward and are precariously perched on the very edge of his nose.

Jon doesn't stop.

They get food along the way, fastfood from drive-thrus and junk food from gas stations. Ryan has an almost religious devotion to Coca-Cola, and his bitter rants about the size of the hamburgers McDonald's sell these days keep Jon so amused he nearly swerves a little too close to the centre line a few times. He's excellent company, talking retro music when he's not talking poetry or the Great American Novel or mocking whatever shit's playing on the radio, and Jon silently congratulates himself on his decision to let Ryan hitch with him. He pays for Ryan's burgers and gummi bears, and tells him that he's reimbursing him for the company when Ryan tries to argue. He doesn't want the guy wasting his money when he doesn't seem to have much.

It makes him wonder again about Vegas and Ryan's story and the military duffel sitting at Ryan's feet, but after that first statement, Ryan never offers anything about Vegas. When Jon asks, Ryan goes silent for a few beats. "That was in another country, and besides, the wench is dead," he says, mouth not quite and not quite not a smile.

He doesn't ask again, but at they swap places and Jon lets Ryan drive. He even manages to sleep for a while, waking up now and then at the glare on oncoming headlights, slitting looks at Ryan's profile rimmed in fleeting white light through the window and his thin hands steady on the wheel, and then drowsing again

They trade off for a while, but it's not enough sleep, not really - not the _good_ sort of sleep – so when they pass another motel sign, Jon pauses, lets the car drop in speed a little. "I'd kill for a real bed, fuck."

"Mm," Ryan says agreeably, rolling his head forwards on his neck and wincing at the stiffness. "I know what you mean."

"Seriously," Jon says. "A bed with sheets. And pillows. And a shower. And a TV." Another motel sign flashes by, and he clicks his tongue in irritated longing and mentally tallies the money in his wallet and on his credit card. He's saved some already by being able to sleep while Ryan drives, so it's not a completely terrible idea. And god, _pillows_. "You know what, I think that sign is a sign."

Ryan blinks at him, slow and measured and a little bewildered. "Yeah."

"Like, an omen," Jon clarifies.

"Oh." Ryan turns that over in his head, nods. "Okay, that's cool," he says, shoulders straightening imperceptibly. "I'm pretty sure I can get a ride from here without any trouble. There's a lot of traffic."

"No, I'll still take you to Kingman," Jon says. "I meant that you could stay. I mean, we could share. I'd pay for the room, I mean, but you can stay, too."

Ryan turns his head all the way around to stare at Jon this time, blank-faced, and for a few seconds Jon just wonders _why._

Then – "No, fuck, I meant – I didn't mean that," he says hurriedly, his voice rising and cracking a little. "I meant like, twin beds. Or like, a bed and crashing on the floor. I don't mean," Jon says, tripping over his tongue. Ryan's expression doesn't alter. "I don't mean – I mean, I don't necessarily mean what you're thinking, unless you're thinking it in a good way, in which case I'm only thinking it because your expression made me think it and then only if you want to, and either way the offer's not contingent on you accepting it in that way, if you know what I mean when I say that I didn't mean that."

"I don't know why I'm supposed to know what you mean when you pretty clearly don't know yourself," Ryan says solemnly, but then he grins.

  
 **iv.**

Propping open the motel window is almost the first thing Jon does after they get inside. Okay, he tosses his bag onto the floor by the bed, and finds the rolling papers and other shit for Ryan, but then he turns his attention to wrestling with the window catches. It's a Herculean battle, because the windows are set high along one wall, long and thin and horizontal, and they're hinged so they can only open a few inches. Which, sure, is handy when it comes to preventing break-ins, and probably break-outs, but it's a bitch when it comes to providing proper ventilation. And now he sounds like his dad, but, seriously.

It's not like they're going to stifle, but the sour-faced woman at the front desk had looked down at him over her glasses and sniffed when they'd signed in, incongruous butterflies in bright, jewel-toned enamel winking in her ears. Jon's damned if he's going to leave the room full of pot smoke in the morning and make her day.

"It's a mighty battle," Ryan agrees, looking up for a moment, his mouth quirking to one side.

"It is," Jon says seriously. "And I intend to win it. That's the way it is. Ha," he adds as the last window creaks arthritically but lets him push it open a crack. "Hail, the conquering hero."

"Hail."

Jon retires, triumphant, and looks around for somewhere to sit. The bed seems kind of awkward, and he's not sure that it's a good idea to bring it to attention yet, so he sinks cross-legged to the floor near Ryan and peers over his shoulder.

"Oh, yeah," Ryan says almost breathlessly when he's finished rolling the joint, his fingers quick and deft as when he was lighting his cigarette. He's better at it than Jon is, and even gets it roughly even-shaped. "God, it's been a while."

"Tell me about it," Jon agrees. "I've been driving for a week. I haven't even been able to get a beer most of the time."

Ryan's silver lighter surfaces again, and Ryan shifts around until he's sitting facing Jon, their legs folded and their knees just barely brushing. Jon's jonesing pretty badly, but he lets Ryan take the first hit because his mother brought him up to be polite. His fingers brush Ryan's when they pass the joint back and forth silently; Jon's not sure, but he thinks it's the first time he's touched him.

Ryan's thin enough that Jon would have supposed his fingers, at least, would be cool, the bloodless pale type with 'chilled' as their default, but they're not. They're warm, almost too warm, the touch making Jon's own skin prickle. He's too aware of Ryan, sitting close like this, long minutes that take forever.

"I always wanted to be a writer, you know," Ryan says suddenly.

Jon doesn't know what to say to that, for once. He's gotten used to people saying it to him sometimes, when he mentions working for this paper or that; women in their fifties looking wistful, guys looking thwarted, young girls looking sharp and interested and like they're willing to drain his lifeblood for tips. (He doesn't have any. He's a photographer, not a writer.) The way Ryan says it leaves his practiced deflections ( _it's actually a really boring job, you know; no glamour, just a lot of city council meetings and shitty pay, seriously_ ) hanging loose and inadequate.

"You still could be," he says instead. "You're what, early twenties?" Ryan doesn't say anything, just smiles his gentle smile, and Jon says "Young, anyway. All the time in the world for you to be anything you want."

"Maybe," Ryan says. "Sure." He stubs the joint off against the edge of his shoe-sole, his knuckles brushing against Jon's calf. It's a punctuating move that Jon thinks about protesting, but can't summon the energy to. Instead, he watches Ryan shut his eyes and yawn exaggeratedly, eyes screwing shut and mouth wide and round.

"I can barely breathe in here," Ryan says, and undoes the first two buttons of his ugly paisley shirt with quick, careless pops. "Not that I'm complaining." The next two buttons follow, and then Ryan patently loses patience with the fastenings and pulls it off over his head like a t-shirt. He stretches like a cat, a slow curve of spine, arms going stiff then collapsing again.

"Yeah, it's kind of close. I opened the window, but…"

Without his shirt, Ryan looks softer, almost monotone in his brown corduroys; brown-haired and brown-eyed. The low light turns his bare face, chest, and arms shades of cream and sepia, almost the faded, burnished tones of an old photograph. His nipples are light brown, and the fine hair on his forearms is haloed in warm light.

He yawns again, and Jon studies him more openly while his eyes are creased shut, the lean muscle of his arms and the open sharpness of his collarbone.

Ryan's eyes pop open suddenly, and the light is bright enough to blanch away the shadows and any tell-tale expressions on his face. "You want to fuck?"

"Uh," Jon says, caught looking, caught off-guard. He laughs awkwardly, scratching at the back of his neck. That's some fucking question. "Uh, yeah, I mean, yeah, I do. Absolutely. If you want, that is."

"I wouldn't ask otherwise," Ryan says patiently. "You're a nice guy, you know." It's a statement, not a question, but the way he says it almost sounds surprised.

"Because I want to fuck?" Jon asks. "I'm pretty sure that that just makes me a guy, full stop." He leans forward and rests his hand just about Ryan's knee, where it's brushing against his own. It seems like a good intermediate move, progressive without being aggressive. He strokes his thumb over the surface, dull corduroy mossy and muffling the thigh beneath.

Ryan doesn’t say anything, just blinks. Then he leans in, close, his hands settling on each of Jon's knees; Jon thinks he's coming in to kiss him for a moment, but the angle's all wrong. Ryan's forehead comes to rest lightly against his instead. Their eyes are still locked together although the angle makes it weird, distorts Ryan's face like a fairground mirror.

It feels like a dare, and Jon's fingers go lax on Ryan's thigh, then move through the empty air until they graze the bare skin of Ryan's stomach. It seems infinitely intimate, his fingers against the thin skin, feeling the shift of muscle as Ryan breathes, the bloodwarm heat of his body. He can feel grittiness between his forehead and Ryan's where strands of their hair are trapped between the pressure of bone against bone. He can't seem to control the raggedness of his own breathing.

Ryan moves one hand slow and deliberate from Jon's knee to grasp his arm around the bicep, fingers pressing tightly into the muscle. It's a clear challenge and escalation both, and Jon feels his nose bump against Ryan's before he finds the edge of Ryan's mouth, open and wet and warmer even than his skin.

"Mmm," Ryan says, eyes fluttering open again. He has brown-sugar eyes, Jon thinks again, warm and wide and utterly inscrutable. "Come closer-"

"I _want_ to," Jon breathes back, and then it's awkward for a little while as they get their legs unfolded, Ryan's long limbs suddenly infinitely clumsy and hopelessly tangled. Jon's pretty sure that it'd be a lot smoother if he could stop kissing Ryan for a minute or so, fast hard frustrating kisses that end too quickly - but yeah, that's not going to happen.

It's better when they're finally both on their knees and leaning into each other. Jon hadn't really thought about how he wanted this to go, beyond _skinskinskin_ and ultimately sex, hopefully a blowjob. Which makes it kind funny that he's still dressed and Ryan still has his pants on. This is way more desperate than he'd anticipated, a faster ragged tempo; he wouldn't have imagined Ryan's hands firm and insistent on the sides of his head either, thumbs pressing furrows under Jon's cheekbones.

It's hot, though, really fucking hot, letting Ryan push his head back and kiss under his jaw, then pull his face roughly down again, so he closes his eyes and goes with it for a while.

"Your pants," he mutters a little later, "fuck, dude, they're insane." It's not a compliment. Jon's starting to think that Ryan's old-fashioned grandfather pants were designed deliberately to thwart him. They have a button fly, which should make them _easy_ , and maybe even a little sexy if he could manage to pop the buttons slowly in an ineluctable downwards row, but he can't. They make his fingers feel clumsy, the buttonholes stiff and unyielding, and seriously, these pants were designed with malice aforethought.

"My pants are hip," Ryan says, laughing a little and batting Jon's hands away, "don't you insult my pants." Jon leans into him and rests his head on Ryan's shoulder, watching as Ryan's thin clever hands coax the buttons nimbly from the corduroy; he makes it look easy. It's still kind of hot. Ryan's underwear is white and cotton, the shape of his cock becoming clear as he pushes the pants down off his narrow hips, letting them sag around his knees to the floor. "Yours, though –"

"My jeans are classic," Jon protests, but he pushes his face further against the curve of Ryan's neck and lets Ryan take care of them, too. Ryan smells of the strong fresh reek of weed, and under that old cigarette smoke, faded patchouli along his hairline, and something else undefined, something that makes Jon's throat close up a little, makes him think of dust and shut-up rooms.

It feels even better kneeling against each other like this now, only thin cotton between them; kissing slow and luxurious, grinding. Jon feels more in control again, setting the pace, because he _knows_ this, he knows how to do this. He presses his lips against the faint pulse under the sharp curve of Ryan's jaw the same time he pushes his hand into Ryan's underpants, the elastic of the waistband pressing into his wrist, and wraps his hand around the solid, satisfying heft and thickness of Ryan's cock. He feels it twitch in his grip, feels the pulsebeat jump under his mouth.

" _Oh,_ " Ryan whispers, exhales, his face going smooth and his hands stilling on the waistband of Jon's boxers as Jon starts jerking him. His mouth doesn't close again. "That's –"

"Mmm," Jon agrees, and pauses, watching the sudden heavy pleasure fade a little from Ryan's expression. "C'mon, I want –"

"Yeah," Ryan mutters back, biting his lip. Jon makes a deep contented noise he can't really help when Ryan pushes his boxers away and gets his hands on Jon's cock.

It feels like he's been waiting for this since Ryan tapped on the car window and looked down at him through his sunglasses; Ryan's pliable hands on him, that little concentrating crease between his eyebrows that lends him a look of bewilderment, deepening as he focuses and smoothing out a little every time Jon does something that surprises deep urgent noises from him, makes his little white teeth bite deeper.

Jon's pretty regretful when he has to push Ryan away, back onto his heels. The wide look of confusion Ryan turns on him only makes him more regretful. He looks like someone's poured cold water down the back of his neck unexpectedly.

"Jon," he says. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Of course not," Jon says, and squeezes his hip comfortingly. "Dude, I was going to come pretty soon and I don't think you were far off, either."

Ryan screws up his nose. "I don't see why that's a bad thing."

Jon has to agree. "No, but, we can do better, I'm pretty sure." He wonders if this is the opportune moment to suggest a blowjob. Probably not.

"Yeah?" Ryan sounds a little dry, half-amused and half-intrigued.

"I was thinking we could take it off the floor and onto the bed," Jon suggests mildly, sliding his boxers off the ankle they've been caught around. "I think the weave of this carpet's permanently branded into my knees now. And my back hurts."

"Mm," Ryan says meditatively. "Yeah. Go lie down, and I'll rub your back for you."

Jon blinks at the quiet crisp decision in Ryan's voice; gets slowly to his feet and sits on the edge of the bed. The thin mattress sags alarmingly under his weight.

"Lie down," Ryan says, getting to his own feet easily. "On your belly, come on. Taking your shirt off would be a good idea, too."

"Genius," Jon mutters, pulling his t-shirt over his head. "Taking off my shirt. I mean, I would never have thought of that."

"Not everyone can be clever," Ryan agrees, with another slice of smile. "Belly, come on."

Jon arranges himself full-length on top of the covers, resting his cheek on one of the pillows. It smells kind of musty and he suspects it might have lumps, but can't tell. It's a weird feeling, lying stretched out on his stomach, naked and waiting. Waiting makes him feel vulnerable in the way that just being naked doesn't. He can't see Ryan behind him without lifting himself up on his elbows, but he can hear him walking around the bed.

Then he feels the mattress shift, and glances over his shoulder as Ryan throws a leg over his thighs. "I thought you promised me a massage." He'll accept a change of plan, but -

"I did," Ryan says. "How else am I supposed to reach your back?"

Jon supposes that makes sense. He shuts his eyes and waits, and finally fingertips brush against the back of his shoulders, almost ticklish. The touch moves down the dip of his spine, light enough that it makes him shiver, and the sensation blossoms out over his ribs, making his scalp tighten across the underside of the deep outwards curve of his skull.

"Mmm." He's not sure if it's turning him on, though he's harder against the mattress than before, or whether he just wants to lean back into Ryan's hand and close his eyes, let him pet him until he falls asleep. Ryan's finger traces along the wing of his shoulder blade, mapping the shape of bone through warm living skin, gentle and sure and raising gooseflesh. "I don't know if this qualifies as a back rub yet, dude," he says, turning his head a little.

Ryan smiles faintly at him. Under the cheap motel lights his skin is only a few shades different from the linen, pale and blanched, his eyes dark and shallow. "I haven't started yet."

"Mmm," Jon mumbles again, trying to convey both disbelief and a desire to have that proved to him. Ryan's tracing his vertebrae now, a slow circling of every bump in his spine, moving inorexably downwards. He stops short just above the crease of Jon's buttocks, and Jon moans and wriggles back a little. "Oh, come on."

"Later," Ryan says, and Jon doesn't have to turn his head to see his face to know that he's smirking. Then he stops teasing and starts massaging Jon's back properly, fingers digging into his shoulders, moving over the back of his ribs, Jon shuts his eyes and goes a little boneless with enjoyment, like a well-stroked cat; he feels almost like he's floating. The coverlet is still rough under his chest and the pillow creased under his cheek, but his legs feel like gravity's affecting them differently, except for the warm heavy weight of Ryan on the back of his thighs and his hands on Jon's back.

Then Ryan's hands finally, finally work their way down his spine again, soften and move rhythmically down Jon's flanks in looping spirals. "You want me to keep going?" he asks softly, and Jon squeezes his eyes shut and says " _Yes._ "

There's another wait, but this time he's anchored, Ryan's weight pinning him to reality. Ryan spits into his hand, and Jon turns his head quickly, shifting around as much as he can without throwing Ryan off.

"Whoa," he says. "We may be roughing it, but we're not that rough. I've got stuff in my backpack, give me a second." Ryan moves off him without comment, and Jon struggles to sit up, the humming loose muscle in his back and shoulders startled into movement again. He really just wants to stay melded to the mattress forever, but duty calls.

"Aha," he says a few beats later, finally finding the familiar shape of the small bottle of KY amongst his bundled clothes; it presses blindly into his palm, but there's no mistaking it. Another fumble finds the cardboard box of condoms, and he pulls them out triumphantly, spilling socks and t-shirts all over the motel floor.

Ryan raises his eyebrows at the half-empty, but doesn’t comment. "On your stomach again," he says softly, and Jon's not sure whether that's his normal tone muted down, low and rough, or whether he's gone a little hoarse.

Jon rolls obediently back onto his stomach anyway, resting his chin on his folded arms. He's facing the wrong way this time, staring across the carpet to the blank television and the painted cinderblocks of the motel wall, his feet brushing against the pillows.

"Chill out," Ryan says soothingly, then laughs under his breath at the liquid squelch of the bottle disgorging its contents. His hand settles warmly on one curve of Jon's ass, fingers splaying and curling. "Chill out, man."

"I'm chill," Jon argues, but he tenses up a little when Ryan touches him. The lube is still cooler than his own body, but Ryan's hands are sure and deft, and after a minute or so he relaxes, tension leaching out of his shoulders and spine. Ryan's fingers push into him, and Jon stares across at the gunmetal gray of the mute and blind television. There's a faded print on the wall; it looks like it was a vase full of gaudy flowers once, overblown grey-pink roses and blue irises that have faded to a sickly violet, consumptive sunflowers. He's suddenly certain that they've been hanging there for the past twenty years; forty, even fifty.

Ryan's fingers hook inside him and hit something that makes Jon hum and move his thighs apart a little further, something that sends him a dull warm surge of pleasure up through his bones, makes his dick twitch and his balls tighten. "That's good," he says, rocking his hips against the bed. The motel bedspread is rough under his belly and the thinner skin at the tops of his thighs, and he wonders how often they wash them. Maybe they never wash them; they must change the sheets between customers, but the bedspreads themselves, who knows. God, this is a stupid time to be thinking about something like that.

  
 **v.**  
Jon, when he's mostly sober, or just short of outright stoned – it's funny how they overlap, sometimes – likes to think that you can get a handle on people, sometimes, when you fuck them; get to see little details that don't normally see the light of day, or which tend to get overlooked when you both have your clothes on. Something like that. His first college girlfriend always bit her lip, and to this day he's not sure whether she did that because she liked the pain, or because she was afraid of making some unguarded noise. He thinks it was probably the latter. He used to kiss her afterwards, run the very tip of his tongue along the dents pressed into the underside of her lower lip, and every time he did it she'd blink at him like she was surprised. Her eyelashes had been fascinating, up close, when she wasn't wearing mascara; blonde at their very roots, shading down into dark brown.

He can see Ryan's face reflected in the dead television screen, a dim and imperfect mirror. Ryan fucks him with his eyes shut and his mouth curved into a smile, small but undeniable and strangely sweet. It's a grass smile, the kind of smile he's seen on friends when they've been smoking up in their backyards, good music playing and the sky arcing above them in an infinite sweep. Jon rests his head on his arms while Ryan's fingers dig creases into his hips as he fucks him, part of him just feeling it, the part of him he can't turn off thinking about how it feels and turning it over in his mind like a smooth stone, and a distant third wondering what Ryan's thinking about.

From the smile, it looks like a good thought; a good dream.

Ryan's mostly steady, rocking forward slow and even on some rhythm of his very own, but towards the end he starts moves faster, irregularly, coaxing Jon up onto his knees.

"Asshole," Jon says breathlessly, because he'll get fucked on his back or stomach if he's feeling lazy or drunk enough, but he doesn't do doggy-style, at least not from this side of the equation. It's a pretty token protest, because the burn is fucking awesome, stretch and friction in the best way, what he's been needing in the worst way for a couple months running, and the change in angle is even better, just about every time Ryan thrusts into him. It doesn't take more than a couple of strokes up on his knees and his own hand on his cock until Jon comes, against his own chest and across the aggressively patterned bedspread.

 _They'll have to wash it now_ , some small stupid part of him thinks, and he presses his forehead flat against his forearms again and shuts his eyes, waiting for Ryan to finish up, every continued movement setting off small aftershocks and just this side of too much, too sensitive.

Clean-up afterwards is pretty haphazard, but Jon can't really bring himself to care all that much. He'll take a shower in the morning. He'll shower, and he'll wash his hair –

He can hear Ryan in the bathroom, and looks over when the bathroom door opens, throwing a sudden wedge of brightness into the room, making Jon screw up his eyes in protest. It doesn't last long; Ryan flicks off the light and steps back into the bedroom, a little uncertain. In the half-dark he looks thinner, all shadows and sharp edges, awkwardly put-together in a way that doesn't match the way his careful movement across the floor.

When his body presses up against Jon's back under the covers, it’s warm and not quite as bony as he'd been expecting. Jon waits until Ryan's settled into bed, his knees curving in mimicry into the underside of Jon's own, like interlocking pieces of a Chinese puzzle.

"I can take you all the way to Vegas, if you want," he says sleepily. "It's not that far out of my way. Only an extra day of driving."

"Little more than that," Ryan says into his shoulder. "It'd mess up your trip, your story – your overarching narrative thing."

"Nah. It'd add human interest." He can feel the deep breath Ryan takes against his back, the sudden expansion and slow release of his ribcage. "Or I can edit selectively. Either way, it's workable."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," Jon says. "You've got yourself a ride home."

"Mmm," Ryan says from behind him, barely audible. "It's been a long time since I've been home." Somehow Jon's pretty sure Ryan's smiling again, pressing his sweet soft dreamer smile between Jon's shoulderblades. "I keep getting nearly there, you know, but I never – something always comes up, I guess."

"Not much longer," Jon promises sleepily, and lets his eyes close to the punctuating sound of Ryan's heavy sigh against his skin, echoing with deep weariness and some profound easing.

  
 **vi.**

It takes Jon a minute or two to remember; it takes him significantly more than a minute or two to wake up in the first place, and at first he's mostly just thinking blissful, shapeless thoughts of _bed, bed_ , enjoying the sensation of a good night's sleep – he's slept in his car way too often in the past week or so – and vaguely questing thoughts of _coffee, coffee_ , wistful and imperative at the same time. It's not until he rolls over and his back protests that he remembers that the looseness and the _good_ ache in his muscles comes from more than just a decent night's sleep on a bona fide mattress, albeit one that's seen better days.

"Ryan?" he asks softly, then turns his head. The pillow beside him is smooth and uncreased, as though it's been carefully pulled straight, or never slept on at all. Jon sits up, suddenly wide awake. There's no sign of Ryan's clothes on the bedroom floor, no sign of Ryan at all. He doesn't have to check the poky bathroom to know that it's uninhabited; the quality of silence says it all.

"Shit," he says very softly, and then much louder, "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , you fucking idiot, fucking _dumbass,_ fuck –"

He finds his wallet tangled up in his jeans, which he thinks is where he left it the night before, but god knows, that means nothing. He tears it open, and his fingers don't seem to work properly, because he fumbles and nearly drops it. It's roughly the largest surprise of his life to date to find his gas money for the next couple of days still folded neatly in the right place. When he flicks through it, counting under his breath, it's still all there. His credit cards haven't been touched either, at least as far as he can tell. His car keys are still sitting on the bedside table.

Jon checks out not long afterward, duffel slung over his shoulder, thudding in a soft slow beat against the back of his leather jacket. The woman at the front desk is the same one as the night before, and if anything, she looks more irritated by his existence than she did last night.

He's not sure whether she's still on the same shift, or whether she's had her break and is already on the next one. Maybe they clone her; the thought of an army of middle-aged, sour-faced clones is a disquieting one, each identical disapproving face with eyes like badly poached eggs and badly set hair, and absurdly whimsical earrings.

"Hey," Jon says, and smiles charmingly at her. He has a nice smile, or so he's been told; it usually works for him, getting him out of forgotten homework in middle school and forgotten anniversaries in college, and general misdemeanours in between. Middle-aged ladies are the smile's specialty. "Good morning."

The woman looks up from the book on her lap, gives him one long flat glare, then looks down again. "Checking out?"

"Yup," Jon agrees, swinging his duffel against his back again for emphasis. "Got to hit the road nice and early."

He hands her his credit card again to make another imprint of, and signs his name in one long scrawl in the places she marks with her fingertip. When he's done, her gaze returns to her novel.

Jon hesitates by the desk a little longer. She doesn't look up, so finally he clears his throat. "Um. Uh, I was wondering if – you know the guy I came in with last night, did you see him leave? Can you maybe tell me what time that was?"

"The guy you came in with?" she asks, frowning. Jon's not sure whether she honestly can't remember, or whether the frown indicates disapproval. It's probably the latter. "I didn't see –"

"Never mind," Jon says, as politely as he can manage.

  
 **vii.**

It's stupid and sentimental, but when he comes to the off-ramp not long before lunch, he hesitates for a moment or two too long with his indicator lights blinking _left left left_ , his hand gone still on the gearstick.

The guy in the car behind him thumps on his horn, once, a couple of times; any second now, and he's going to be rolling down his window and shouting.

"Fuck off," Jon says under his breath, then: "Fuck." He takes the Palmdale exit, and tells himself he's an idiot a couple more times.

He turns on the radio back on later that afternoon. Part of him isn't even all that surprised when the clipped, professional broadcaster's announcement warns westbound travellers to find alternate routes from the Victorville-Mariposa leg of Interstate 15, mentions the accident with the oil tanker just after midday –

He pulls over for a few minutes and leans his head against the steering wheel, but he can still feel the memory of a thin finger slowly tracing out the bones of his back; across scapulae to vertebrae, up to the base of the cranium, and down again.

  
 **ouroboros.**

Ryan's feet hit the side of the road hard, and the impact is jarring, travelling from ankles to knees to hips. He blinks once, twice. The air is a slap against his face; the sharp transition from half-somnolent warmth into the cool late afternoon shocks him every time. At least it's not raining this time, and there's plenty of traffic out – the highway is clogged with cars in both directions.

Someone's bound to stop and pick him up sooner or later. He hoists his backpack up a little higher on his shoulder, steps a little closer to the road, and sticks out his thumb hopefully.


End file.
